


Seville Street Station

by svdhummus



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, End of the World, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic, POV GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Prophecy, Slow Burn, tubbo owns a bakery and bakes emotions into cakes to make people feel better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svdhummus/pseuds/svdhummus
Summary: “I see more magic inside of you than in anyone else. I see it in your eyes. The way you twist your fingers together when you worry,” Clay whispered the words into the space between them, their breaths mingling and creating currents of electricity.“You're only saying that to make me feel better.” George's fingers itched to reach out and curl around the other’s, a desire so consuming that it was tangible.Then Clay’s hands were moving, settling on the defined edges of George’s jaw, thumbs brushing cheekbones and dried tears. The air filled with uneven breaths as vivid green gazed into deep brown.“I’m not. I see it around you, all the time. Your skin glows with it,” his eyes flickered over George’s expression, where calloused hands met soft cheeks. “So ethereal. So beautiful.”-In a realm brimming with mythical creatures and wizards, George is born as a normal boy.A dark prophecy is sweeping George's world, divined to bring destruction upon humanity. Determined to prove his worth to a community that shuns him, George sets out to locate the hero that can save their world. Instead, he finds an arrogant thief with an ego as massive as the power he possesses.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 37
Kudos: 95





	1. The Becoming

In the early hours of the morning, Seville Street Station was quiet, save for the occasional costermonger preparing a wagon of produce, or a busker setting up on the corner of a busy street to drift his compositions through the thick atmosphere. The sky was a dusky brown, a constant sight due to the dirty smoke that was incessantly belched into the air through chimneys and fires. Littering the narrow streets were loose cobblestone and organic waste. Buildings were squalid and built together carelessly to accommodate the growing community of Sevillians. Seville Street Station was a drab city—once a quaint town located by the riverbed, but now tainted by the ugliness of industrialism.

It was a feature of Seville Street Station that the rest of the magical community looked down upon—the adopted innovation from the human realm that was industrialism. Some scholars called it distasteful, an insult to their more progressive society, an unnecessary stain on their pristine world; Sevillians called it a wonder of achievement from their lesser kin (“It’s amazing what these unexceptional humans think of to solve their pesky little problems!” Wilbur had once exclaimed).

Yet despite its controversial reputation, the city was the central location of late-night festivities that involved cheap and disgusting rum, the constant buzz of conversation, and the circulation of small scandals concerning members of the town. Seville Street Station was busy in the daytime, but it became a living and breathing entity after the sun slipped below the horizon. The noise of the nightlife could be heard throughout the streets, often disturbing the whiffle pins, their sharp snaps of aggravation rippling the air. And due to the neverending noise of the night crowd, sleeping civilians had developed their own ways to block out the ruckus. Most had, at least.

This was how George found himself in the depths of the night, cotton stuffed far into his ears, gazing up at the leaking roof of his little cottage–very much sleepless. He trailed his fingers along the worn edge of his blanket, feeling the loose threads that had unraveled with age. Usually, Sapnap cast a charm before they settled in for the night, one that shut out the cacophony of voices, but he left the city early that morning for an errand and had not yet returned. It left George squirming restlessly on his itchy bed, his attempts at ignoring the hubbub utterly futile. 

Once the moon had passed its high point in the night sky, George sat up from the divot in his cot and wrapped the tattered blanket over his shoulders. A feeling of vertigo washed over him as he stood up from his low mattress. He stumbled and reached for the edge of the kitchen table.

The cottage that George and Sapnap shared was far from a luxury building. Located in the slums of Seville Street Station, they resided in the heart of filthy corridors and smog-stained walls. It was a wonder how their shabby residence hadn’t fallen over already (probably something to do with all the charms Sapnap had cast). Regardless of the questionable integrity of their home, George’s favorite activity was climbing the rickety ladder that led up to their shale roof. 

George collected the blanket tighter around his torso. The autumn night chill had a bite that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. Yet despite the sting of the night and the mixture of smoke and rum wafting through the air, George took a deep inhale. The air rushed through his esophagus. Here in the slums, a faint spatter of stars could still be seen. George tilted his head up to take in its twinkle.

“Why are you still awake, George?”

A boy sat beside George on the roof, slightly behind him yet close enough for George to notice that he seemed to have appeared out of thin air. A boy that wasn’t there, and then was. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing?”

The boy shrugged his overcoat further on. His cheeks pillowed against the side of his tall collar. 

“Sapnap is out of the house again, I assume?”

George nodded. He leaned back until his back hit the tiles, the slant of the roof steep enough that he had to dig his heels into the slate to prevent himself from slipping. The boy followed him.

“You can really see the stars from this side of the city. I can recall when the nights were lit only by the sheen of the galaxy.”

George snorted, “There you go with your old man dialogue.”

“Listen here, punk. I’ve lived for hundreds of years—I think I have the right to speak in whichever manner I so choose.”

“Whatever. You only do it to annoy me.”

The man grinned kindly and ruffled the messy locks of George’s hair. “Yeah, I do, don’t I?”

The dark chill of the night numbed George’s nose and ears. The smatter of stars was still etched in the back of his eyelids as he fluttered them closed. Out here, if he let go enough, he could imagine himself drifting into the sky, higher and higher, until the stars were bigger than the streetlights. 

“Wilbur.”

“Yes, George?”

“Sometimes, I can't stand this place. Do you ever think about leaving?”

Wilbur propped his elbow underneath him, leaning over to gaze at George’s face illuminated by the lights of the town and the pale gleam of the moon. 

The stars behind George’s eyelids faded, leaving nothing but black.

“Leave Seville, huh? I can understand why you’d want to. I sometimes wish I could see through windows without squinting through the dirt. See my reflection when I look down at the river—”

“It’s not just that, though. It’s not just… the general aesthetics of this place.”

“Then why? George, I thought we were past this. You’re one of the most intelligent wizards in this entire—”

“No, I know. It’s not about that. I guess it’s just the… the vibe.”

“The vibe?”

“Yes.” 

George peered through his eyelashes to see Wilbur beside him, eyebrows furrowed with confusion. He sighed and swiped at a loose strand of hair in front of his eyes. “The people here. They’re too loud, too egotistical. Every night a brawl breaks out over who’s the drunkest, who’s the most brawny—”

“ _Hey_. I live in Seville. Tommy lives here, Tubbo—”

“Obviously I’m not talking about you guys. But you know that I’m right. This town has lost its charm. The one that it still had when I was a kid. Do you remember what it used to be like?”

“Of course I do. I remember it better than you.”

“Then you know what I mean.”

Wilbur was opening his mouth to respond when the rumbling began. A low, sinister growl that echoed and penetrated George’s eardrums from the earth, the sky, the very air surrounding the small slate roof. The cottage shook as if George was riding down a broken road, and he was sure that this was the moment it finally lost the battle against the laws of physics, that it collapsed and left him and Wilbur buried in a heap of rubble. The rumble built until it drowned out the voices of the drunken men below, the snaps of the whiffle pins, until the rippling air turned into its own sound. 

As quickly as it started, it stopped. For the first time in years, the night was silent in Seville Street Station. The shock was tangible and the air was still. As if everyone was waiting for an explanation for the anomaly that had just occurred.

When the sound of the city returned, it was different from before, laced with tones of uncertainty, tentativeness, fear. The voices returned with hesitation as if questioning whether they were allowed to speak again. 

“What—what was that, Wilbur?”

Wilbur sat up and looked towards the invisible horizon. The darkness of the night now held something ominous, like the shadows were hiding more than shrubs and undergrowth, something sinister that lurked beneath the weeds. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like it was coming from everywhere at once.”

“Like there was no source.”

“Like the source was everything.”

George didn’t have to glance at Wilbur to know he was concerned. 

“What do you think it was, then?”

A pause. Wilbur stood up and brushed the dust off of his overcoat, straightening his tall collar. “Whatever it is, it’s not good.”

And with a blink, Wilbur was gone. George was left sitting on his cottage roof, alone, surrounded by the distressed murmurs of Seville Street Station and a deep sense of apprehension.

\---

George aimlessly crammed another profiterole into his mouth. It tasted of vanilla and Comfort, a new flavor that Tubbo had concocted earlier that day.

“Well?” Tubbo asked. “I think next time I’ll need to go a bit lighter on the powder of newt. It’s leaning more towards Peace than Comfort, and I’ve already made that one.”

George merely nodded and continued to chew down on the pastry. Tubbo often asked his friends for input on his test flavors, but they usually just smiled and affirmed what Tubbo already knew: his pastries were impeccably delicious.

As Tubbo walked back into the kitchen, George returned his attention to the leather-bound book laid across the bakery counter. Scrawls of an unintelligible language spread across the worn pages, but George’s eyes flitted across the paper with practiced ease. Scattered throughout the margins was George’s handwriting, hastily scribbled in with green ink. George put down a profiterole in exchange for his quill. 

_Cavern of Memoriae - might be worth check—_

The quill slipped, smearing the fresh ink, as George was shoved forward towards the countertop, impact strong enough to steal the breath from his lungs and send his ink bottle crashing towards the bakery floor. Sticky green ink ebbed its way out of the broken shards of glass, and George pounded his chest with a fist in an attempt to coax the chunk of profiterole back out of his windpipe. Amidst the chaos, judgemental stares from nearby customers pricked his skin and the sound of a man’s cackle rang clear throughout the bakery. And judging from the man's position behind George, he was the one who shoved him halfway across the counter. 

“You—idiot,” George choked out between coughs. A storm of footsteps sounded from the kitchen. Moments later, two young boys peered through the doorway to instigate the commotion. Once Tubbo caught sight of the spilled ink and the mushy profiterole projected from George’s mouth, he let out a childish whine. 

“My floor! My profiteroles!”

“Should’ve known that Sapnap had arrived,” the other boy grinned. Sapnap, who was still contracted into fits of laughter, did his best to gather himself and wipe his watery eyes. 

“Nice to see you, Tommy.”

“Likewise.”

“Anyone care to explain what just happened?” Tubbo questioned irritably, his eyes flashing as he surveyed his bakery. “You're making the other customers uncomfortable.” 

After George finished chugging a considerable amount of water, he wiped his mouth and bit out, “Sapnap thought it would be funny to shove me while I was _eating_. And didn't even bother to help when I started choking.”

Sapnap held up his hands in mock surrender, but the cheeky glint in his eyes gave him away. “Sorry, it was too good of an opportunity to pass. Gave me a good laugh.”

“George, do you know if your ink stains cedar? I wouldn’t want it to look like someone puked all over my floors for the rest of eternity,” Tubbo crossed his arms. He was clearly more preoccupied with the state of his shop than the offended flush in George’s cheeks.

Sapnap pulled a wand from his belt strap and flicked it over the broken ink bottle. Scattered shards of glass zipped back together as George’s green ink seeped out of the floorboards. In the time it took George to blink, his ink bottle was positioned innocently back on the counter, pristine and untouched. The words in George’s book were no longer smeared, and the mushy profiterole was gone. 

“That’s what I like to see,” Tubbo smiled, satisfied with the cleanup. “Let me whip you up a Forgiveness cupcake, George. Best to put it all behind you, eh?” He disappeared into the kitchen once again.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Sapnap tucked away his wand and slung an arm around George’s shoulder, disregarding the way the latter curled away from him in irritation. “What are you reading?”

“Researching,” George grumbled. His voice was still hoarse from the lodged pastry. “That mysterious sound from a few days ago.”

“Ah, I reckon that it was an ‘earthquake’,” Tommy cut in, emphasizing the last word in a style that was typical to the boy. “I hear they're common occurrences in the human realm. Knocks things off of shelves, even destroys their homes sometimes. Quite a shame, really.”

George shook his head. “This wasn’t an earthquake. Nothing from the human realm could have elicited that strong of a force. It was definitely magical,” he sighed, brushing the feather of his quill against his lips as he thought. “Wilbur didn't know what it was either.”

“It didn't sound like any good,” Sapnap replied solemnly. Even outside the city walls, he had felt the rumbles and heard the thunderous noise. A stoic silence fell over the men and covered them like a blanket. 

Seville Street Station knew that there was an underlying meaning behind the occurrence. The rumbling carried a weight that caused Sevillians to drag their feet on the city walkways. The noises and colors of the nightlife had subdued. People were nervously anticipating the rumble’s return, creating a disturbing mixture of curiosity and fear in the city’s atmosphere.

Tommy broke the silence with a small grin. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. There's no way we won't, with George’s big brain. An explanation will come.”

George tangled his fingers together. _I sure hope so. It’s not looking quite favorable right now, though._

At that moment, Tubbo pushed open the kitchen door, a massive yellow cupcake held in his palm. When it was placed in front of him, George caught whiffs of buttercream and the telltale scent of Forgiveness—honeysuckle and something tangy.

“Eat up, George,” Sapnap pushed the treat closer. “You're never going to forgive me all on your own, knowing how petty you are.” 

George granted himself the satisfaction of glaring at Sapnap one last time before biting into the cupcake. Underneath the delightful taste of lemon sponge and buttercream, a new emotion washed over him. It took the malice out of his eyes and the tension from his shoulders. He gazed back at Sapnap amiably. “Well, it was pretty funny. I guess.”

Sapnap let out a laugh. Tommy pat Tubbo on the back appreciatively. “The boy does it again,” he beamed. “You're a miracle worker, Tubbo. Seriously, some of the emotions you create should put you in prison. This whole bakery is just manipulation to its severest degree.”

Swiveling to shove Tommy away, Tubbo flushed pink and protested, “Not true! I just… I help people, that's all.”

“Right,” Tommy side glanced at the two men opposite the counter. “Well, Tubbo and I better get back to work. The plates aren't washing themselves.”

“Tommy, they literally are. You put a cleaning spell on them.”

Tommy waved the statement away. “The semantics are irrelevant, Tubbo.”

The two boys bid the others goodbye before slipping back into the kitchen. As George finished writing a small footnote in the leather book, Sapnap peered over his shoulder. “I can't believe you managed to learn Kharinese. That language has been dead for centuries.”

“I have a lot of free time,” George replied. 

It was true. Without wizarding classes, George spent the majority of his time in Tubbo’s bakery or the city library, his nose in a book. Having been denied a true education since his elementary days, George’s knowledge came from worn pages and archaic languages (though sometimes Wilbur helped when he had free time). It was a bitter reality that fostered sadness and longing, but George made do. 

“Find anything interesting?” Sapnap asked. 

“Not much. A few places, a few things, and a few times that might help us. But nothing that gives a clear answer,” George ran a hand through his hair. “It scares me, Sapnap. There’s always this knot in my chest these days. And there’s this feeling that comes with it. Like we’re sitting ducks. Like something’s coming and we have no way of protecting ourselves.”

Sapnap clasped his hands together in thought. “I feel the same way,” he whispered, his tone carrying distress. Tentatively, as if he were pondering his next words, he murmured, “Wilbur said something to me about it.”

George raised his eyebrows. “What? What did he say?”

Sapnap turned his head towards the other’s wide eyes. “I didn’t want to bring it up when Tommy was here. But a prophecy is being fulfilled. Something happened twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years ago? Why haven’t I heard of a prophecy like that? I must’ve scoured all the records we have—”

“Only Wilbur knows of it. He divined it.”

A brief silence swept over as George processed the information. Wilbur never told him that he was a soothsayer. “And he kept this hidden? All prophecies are meant to be reported to the Council.”

Sapnap shook his head, “Not this one. All he said was that it was too risky to tell.”

“Well—what was the prophecy, then? Did he tell you anything about its contents?”

Sapnap sighed, “He didn’t tell me a lot. But something dark is coming. And—” he hesitated. The long pause stretched between them until George nudged his shoulder impatiently. 

“What? Spit it out already.”

“I think our world is in grave danger. Wilbur didn't say it explicitly, but he implied that our world would… would fall if we don't stop whatever's coming.”

“What?” George cried in disbelief. “But what is it, what's coming? Who's coming?”

“I—I don’t know.”

A rush of frustration overcame George as he slammed the book shut. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner,” he hissed, “when I was pacing around our home or reading Seville’s records? Why have you waited this long to tell me?”

“I didn’t know about it until today, George,” Sapnap reasoned. “Wilbur told me after our lesson. Why he’s keeping this a secret is beyond me.”

Suddenly, a resounding yell blared from the kitchen. Sapnap shot up from his seat in alarm as a crash shook the kitchen door, sending its shockwaves through the wood floor and into their feet. George hastily tucked the book back into his sack before rushing alongside Sapnap to the kitchen. Before entering, Sapnap threw out a protective hand in front of George and pushed the man behind him. Wand at the ready, Sapnap threw open the door.

Chaos met his eyes as George took in the scene in front of him. Spells bounded off walls and the tile floor, pans crashed down from their hanging racks. The room flashed in colors as spell after spell shot out from Tommy’s wand, all of them directed towards a masked stranger in the corner of the room.

Sapnap immediately joined the fight, doubling the magic energy that sizzled in the air around them. It tingled George’s face until his skin felt tender, and his erratic heartbeat aligned itself in time with the flashes of light.

Yet surprisingly, amazingly, the stranger was still moving, still weaving and dodging around the spells in a way that George had never witnessed before. His movements were lithe, calculated, skilled. He twisted his way around the bursts of magic as if he were dancing with them, an invisible rhythm created by the stranger’s body and the cracks of energy in the air. He flowed like pure water. 

Under the stranger’s arm, George could see a small cauldron that he recognized as Tubbo’s. George helplessly watched as the thief inched closer to the window, continuing to veer out of the spells’ paths. Then, as one of Sapnap’s spells skimmed the top of his ear, the stranger laughed.

It was a guffaw so full of amusement that it caused Tommy’s hand to stall in magic. The man’s mouth, uncovered by his white mask, curled up in an arrogant smirk. He sidestepped a spell hurtling towards his chest and lunged for the window. 

In a reckless surge of brainless courage, George charged towards the stranger. George, a man without a wand, a man that was more vulnerable than anyone else in the room, a man whose blind rage was spurred by the thief's arrogant grin and his own inability to act, stupidly reached for Tubbo’s cauldron. 

Before he could take it from the thief, before he could essentially do anything, a blade was being pointed at his throat.

“George!” Sapnap yelled and drew his hand back to aim another hex. And suddenly, in a whirl of movement that George didn't have time to register, he was yanked forward, the blade now resting flat on his neck and the thief’s iron grip around his arms, restraining him from movement. The thief had pulled George in front of him.

“Hit me,” the stranger sneered. His cool breath hit the back of George’s ear and the hold around him tightened. “Come on, give it a try. You shoot it at me, and it only hits him.” 

From his position, he could see the disbelief in his friends’ eyes. With his back pressed against the thief’s chest, George could feel the other’s heartbeat pushing into his own. Unlike George’s, however, it was steady and slow. As if this whole ordeal hadn’t made him break a sweat, hadn't bothered him in any way at all. And it made George furious. 

But he knew he made a foolish decision. With George acting as a barrier between the thief and Sapnap’s wand, there were no more threats in the room beside the cold steel pressed against his throat. 

George frantically glanced around the room for any source of possible strategy, but he found nothing. 

“Who are you?” Tubbo asked shakily. The stranger didn't respond. Instead, he resumed his track towards the window, this time with George in front of him. 

“I’m leaving through this window. If you try to stop me, I slit this guy’s throat before you can finish saying any kind of spell.”

George couldn't breathe. The blade pressed down a bit harder, and he could feel the first pinpricks of blood beading up from its contact on his skin.

Sapnap lowered his wand. Tommy followed suit. In their expressions was the telltale look of surrender. 

The thief laughed again. It was the same self-assured exhale as the one before, the triumph in it ringing true. When he reached the window, George stumbled backward as the man swung his legs over the sill, the blade still resting heavily on his throat. 

“Goodbye, _George_ ,” the thief whispered the mirthful words into George’s ear, its volume low enough that only he could hear. “Thank you for your protection.”

The dagger finally left his skin as the thief slipped away. He fell forward onto his knees in a mixture of relief and defeat. Sapnap scrambled towards him and dropped to his knees as well. 

“George, are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” George sighed. He gently touched his fingers to his throat and caught the trickle of blood before it stained his collar. “I’ll bandage it later, the cut isn’t deep. Lord, I'm such an idiot. Why did I run at him?”

“Yeah, why did you run at him like that?” Tommy panted. His voice held no malice, only curiosity. 

George leaned back against the wall. “I don’t know,” he breathed. “He was about to get away. And none of the spells were hitting him.”

“The way he moved,” Tubbo cut in, eyes glazed over and unfocused. “It was mesmerizing, in a sense. He moved like—”

“Like water,” Tommy finished.

George nodded in affirmation. “Yeah, I thought so, too. I think something came over me. He was about to get away and I hadn't done anything to try and stop him. What a massive prick,” George added, “laughing at us like he was having fun. Like—like he thought he was superior to us.”

“I mean, judging from that fight, he kind of was,” Sapnap admitted. “I've never seen anyone do that before. He didn’t play offensively, he just… moved. He kept moving.”

“I wonder where he’s from,” Tubbo pondered. “His clothes didn't look like anything we have in the city. The material was different and the style was questionable, to say the least.” 

“I don't think he's from any of the nearby provinces either,” Tommy added. 

“I’m sorry about your cauldron, Tubbo,” George said guiltily. He couldn’t help but feel like the blame was partly on his foolishness.

“It’s alright. I have a feeling he would've escaped anyway, even without you being a complete dunce,” Tubbo joked. “I'll just get a new one at the market, no big deal. As long as your neck will be okay.”

“Who was he?” George wondered as he returned to his feet. There was a valid possibility that the man was merely a common thief, one among the several that lurked around the city. Yet there was something unusual about the way he held himself, how his smug confidence seemed like it was meant to be there, like it completed who he was. And in the interval that George was threatened with the cold blade, he couldn’t deny that the thief’s skin seemed to zip with magical energy, that his breath was a spell of its own, as if his body was its own separate vessel for enchantment. 

George’s thoughts centered around the thief for the remainder of the evening and trailed into the depths of the night. He found himself settled on the slate roof once again, absently brushing his fingers on the bandages around his neck.

_He was a skilled fighter. But he didn’t pull out a wand like most people would._

Then what did it make him? 

_Maybe he’s like you._

The idea swirled around the air and danced with the slight breeze before George blew it away with a sigh. The stranger carried too much magical energy for that notion to be possible. If anything, it made him the exact opposite. 

And that arrogant smile. His pretentious attitude. The way he held his weapon like it was nothing, his heartbeat steady as he pushed the blade harder against George’s throat. The way he whispered his last words in a teasing lilt, as if he hadn’t just threatened to kill in cold blood. It filled George with the same fury he felt in the kitchen, a frustration that he couldn’t explain. 

The thief wore green. It was a green that was both muted and verdant, a rich tone that sunk into your vision and left its mark on the mind. A similar shade to George’s favorite ink that spilled on the bakery floor.

His mind drifted back to the strange rumble and a familiar sense of dread began filling his stomach. As he ran through the overwhelming knowledge that Wilbur was a soothsayer and a twenty-year-old prophecy was predicted to destroy the magical realm, George bit his lips into a grimace of determination. He was going to speak to Wilbur tomorrow at dusk. 

The world as they knew it was in imminent danger, a danger that sucked the geniality out of a city in one single rumble. And although George may not have been the man to come to when the darkness ultimately arrived, he was the man who prepared sufficiently in advance for its first blow. The man that worked his way through dilemmas using strategy instead of a wand.

George’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of bright laughter in the city streets below. Ever since the fateful event seven nights ago, Sevillians maintained a subdued atmosphere during the nighttime, as if the shadows in the alleyways reminded them of chilling terrors that even a keg of rum couldn’t dissipate. But the laughter was entirely untroubled, ringing almost offensively in the stiff city atmosphere. And George couldn’t help but trace the inflections of the breathless guffaw to one that he’d heard earlier that day. 

George sat up. It was the thief. He was still in the city.


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and the thief have a conversation.

Carefully, George climbed down the ladder and back into the cottage. As Sapnap slept peacefully in the corner of the room, George shrugged on his worn cloak and fastened the laces of his boots. 

What he planned on doing, he did not know. The memory of cold steel still squeezed his chest and the threat made to his life resounded in the shallow cut on his throat—but the knowledge that the thief was still in the city, that his smug laugh still rang in the air, prompted George into action. Maybe it had something to do with the currents that ran across the thief’s skin, or the way his whispered words caught George’s ears on fire. Maybe it was his arrogance, his unwavering self-confidence, the way he dodged spells like he repelled them. George didn’t know the reason behind his own reckless abandon. There was just something about the other man, something that ignited a curiosity fierce enough to make George push forward despite the dangers of doing so. 

Intriguing. That’s what he was. 

George slipped out of the cottage and returned to the familiar sounds of the streets, pulling at his hood until the night’s shadows engulfed his features; he couldn’t risk the possibility of the thief recognizing him.  
As he reached a fork in the winding cobblestone pathway, he settled on heading towards the nearest pub. Pubs were always crowded at this time of night, luring the sad and sleepless towards the promise of rum and forget. The perfect place to look for a masked stranger.

When the wooden pub door opened, George was immediately assaulted by the voices of drunken men and the strong scent of beer. Even if the streets of Seville were quieter these days, the intoxicated voices around him still drilled into his temples miserably. He quickly scurried to a corner of the room and sat down at a small table sticky with rum. Not certain whether the thief was even in the building, George resolved to stay for a few moments longer, hoping that he would be able to catch the distinctive timbre of the thief’s voice. 

Although the pub was swarming with people, George noticed that he was receiving quite a few mildly-disturbed glances from passersby. It was hard to miss a hooded man leering in a dark corner, and even though the residents of Seville Street Station were—in the best sense— _diverse_ , there was still something unsettling about the way George sat there, hands void of any alcohol despite being in a pub. Nevertheless, he adjusted his hood and kept his head down adamantly. 

After a few uncomfortable minutes passed by (in which the visitors of the pub had slowly retreated from George's corner), a man pulled up a nearby chair and sat down at the table. Apprehension washed over George as the man scooted closer, a part of him fearing that his dodgy appearance might have attracted the wrong crowd. The pair sat in silence. By now, George’s chin was touching his chest and the cloth of his hood hid his face entirely.

_Please, just leave._

“You want a drink?” 

He recognized the voice and its mellow rasp—it was the thief. George’s head jerked up to face the other’s, whose expression alighted with amusement as he watched George's lips part with shock. 

“I had a feeling it was you,” the thief laughed. “George, right?”

George didn’t know what to say. Instead, he took in the thief’s strong cheekbones, the interest in his arched brows, the glint in his animated expression. The thief's small smile reached his eyes and turned them into crescents. George traced the flat bridge of his nose and connected the freckles splayed across it.

The face behind the white mask.

Just by looking at him, George began to sense the same magical current that he felt in the bakery; he could see it tangled in the thief's hair, dancing across his cheeks, electrifying their surroundings and hanging in the space between them. 

George’s daze was broken when the thief tilted his head in question. “George, right?” he repeated.

George’s startled eyes fell towards his lap. “How did you know it was me?” his words stumbled from his mouth. 

The thief chuckled and gently kicked George’s foot under the table. “Your shoes. And for some reason, I just knew it was you. Maybe it was the way you walked in. Or, maybe it's the way you’ve been hunched up in this corner for the past ten minutes looking like your neck snapped in half. Take the hood off, would you? You look like a Death Eater.”

“A—a what?”

“Nevermind, you wouldn’t know. So, how about that drink?”

“I don’t drink,” George muttered as he grudgingly slipped his hood down, revealing pink ears and ruffled hair. Self-consciously, he reached up to settle the messy locks until they lied flat. The thief’s eyes followed George's fumbling fingers before returning to the drink in his own hand. 

“Of course you don’t,” he sighed. “Just as well, the only thing they have around here is beer and rum. So fucking boring.” The thief shook his head condescendingly but raised the drink up to his mouth regardless.

George stared at the other man cautiously. Earlier in the bakery, the thief's anonymity had given him a certain aspect of danger that kept George on edge (but maybe that was just the blade held against his throat)—presently, however, the thief held an air of nonchalance and indifference that eased the wariness from George’s shoulders, and he found himself beginning to relax. A peculiar distinction seemed to have formed between the faceless stranger that had threatened his life and the man drinking beer in front of him.

It was a full tankard of beer—the kind that burned until the urge to gag was irrepressible—but the thief swallowed it like water. As he continued gulping down the liquid fire, he peeked at George over his cup and raised his eyebrows expectantly, as if his tolerance to alcohol was supposed to be impressing. George merely curled his lip and adjusted his bandages.

The thief’s eyes widened as they fell upon the delicate cloth. The slight movement was the only warning George received before beer was spraying across the table. Slamming the tankard back onto the wet wood, the thief choked violently, releasing a stifled sound that made George jump back in shock.

“What the hell!” George yelped, indignantly trying to wipe the alcohol off of his face. In the sudden outburst, people had begun to peer towards the corner to witness the scene between the two boys. 

By now, the thief had collapsed into a fit of fierce coughs, the force behind them multiplied by the intensity of his fiery drink. His coughs came out in wheezes, a concerning noise that—in some disturbing way—resembled the breathless laughs George had heard on his cottage rooftop.

“What the fuck,” the thief choked out and pointed at the bandages. “Is that from me? Was that from today?”

Something about the brainless question, the loss of his cocky composure, the sight of the thief's entire body convulsing with unrelenting wheezes, made George's lips curl up into a smile; and suddenly, he was laughing with unbridled amusement. It was the type of laughter that forced George to hold onto his stomach and grip the edge of the sticky table. Neighboring pub goers glanced over their shoulders at them, but the thief was too occupied with the beer in his windpipe to notice, and George had slumped over the table in hysterics. They remained in this state for a spell. 

As the wheezes died down and the giggles subsided, the pair fell into silence, their faces red and grinning, their clothes damp with sweat and beer. 

“I was making dinner and I nicked myself while cutting the carrots,” George replied good-naturedly. “Of course it’s from you.”

The thief let his faint grin linger for a moment before wiping it away with a hand. “Are you okay?” he asked, a new hint of concern appearing in his green eyes. “I didn’t realize I was pushing so hard. I usually only use it as an intimidation tactic, you know?”

George raised an eyebrow. “You _usually_ , huh?”

“Yeah. Maybe you just make me nervous.”

George's breath hitched in his throat at the blatant remark. After a moment of stiff silence, the thief chuckled and waved his hand in the air absently. “Just a joke, George. I’m sorry, though. I really am.”

“Whatever, it’s not deep,” George fumbled, brushing off the implications that had been thrown in the air. “Sapnap will heal it tomorrow morning.”

Muted relief settled across the thief’s face. He smiled as he leaned back against his chair. “So, why are you in a pub if you don’t drink?”

George's face flushed slightly as he recalled the reason he had left his cottage. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

And it was partly true: George still wasn't sure why he decided to look for him. However, as he sat there, feeling the waves of magic radiating off of the thief's skin and his impish smile, George realized it was merely a matter of pure curiosity: he just wanted to see him again.

“You know, you can just say you were looking for me. I don’t mind,” the thief smirked, and the same arrogance that he held in the bakery crept onto his features. The rush of contempt that arrived in George’s head was more subdued this time around, but maybe that was just because he was too busy trying to hide his burning cheeks in the most casual way possible.

“I wasn't looking for you.”

“Really? Then why are you here?”

“I—I said, I don’t know! I couldn't sleep.”

The thief stared into George’s defensive eyes, his gaze holding such an intensity that it made the latter look away. When he looked into the vibrant greens and golds, George couldn't help but think of priceless emeralds. 

“Alright. I believe you,” the thief conceded, but the lingering smirk said otherwise.

His smug tone stirred at something within George. Embarrassment trickled down until it was replaced by irritation, and suddenly, George didn’t feel so flustered anymore. Smoothing his hair indifferently, he began to stand up. “Whatever, I should go. I suddenly feel quite tired.”

“No, wait,” the thief laughed as he grabbed George's wrist and pulled him back down, “you're so dramatic. Let’s talk for a bit, I’m enjoying our conversation.”

“I’m not really interested in having a conversation with a thief,” George replied coolly.

Instead of questioning George’s drastic change in attitude, the thief leaned forward amicably. “Hey, it's my job. Respect the hustle.”

“The what?”

“Nevermind. But it’s my job, yeah? I was hired to steal that cauldron. I don't steal things for fun or anything, I'm not a hooligan.”

George couldn't help but feel that the thief's justification for theft and intimidation was quite weak. “Fine. Then I’m not interested in having a conversation with someone who chooses to pursue a career where they rob people.”

“Woah, no,” the thief shook his head and held his hands up in front of him. “I burgle, okay? I don’t rob. There's a very clear and distinct difference.”

“Oh, really? What’s this, then?” George gestured to his neck, eyebrows raised challengingly.

“That was an accident!” the thief’s eyes flashed. “You make me nervous, remember? Okay wait— _George_ , don’t leave, it was just a joke—I swear, you're one of the most dramatic people I’ve ever met.” 

George sat back down with a huff and willed his cheeks to stop flaring up so often. He crossed his arms defensively as he shot back, “How can you say that when we've only been talking for twenty minutes? Must not know a lot of people. Must not have many friends—”

“George. Stop trying to roast me, it's embarrassing for you. I mostly burgle, okay? I never intentionally rob.”

“Why’d you start in the first place?”

“It’s good money. And it got me out of a… rough spot in life,” the thief's voice trailed off into a mutter. Something in it had fallen away to reveal a vulnerability that George didn't expect to hear. 

George cleared his throat and fidgeted with the handle of the forgotten tankard.“There are other ways to make good money.”

The thief snorted as his eyes crinkled into crescents. “George, you’re so boring,” he taunted, his voice returning to its normal ring.

George let out another huff. “If you're only going to insult me from now on, I should really just head home.”

“Nah, you're having too much fun. I can tell that you are.”

George shook his head gently as his cheeks flushed once again. There was no point in trying to hide them this time; the thief’s gaze never left his face. “You know,” George started, “you never told me your name.”

“Who said I wanted to give it?”

George crossed his arms. “Isn’t it fair that I know what it is, since you know mine? I thought we’d be on a first-name basis by now.”

“Oh? And why's that? You wanna see me again, George?”

George opened his mouth but no words escaped his throat. Over the span of their conversation, his weariness had grown greatly and he found that his words were getting harder to string together. “Where'd you get that assumption?” he managed after a stretch of quiet. The thief surveyed the other’s expression amusedly before letting out a sigh.

“Well, I guess it’s only fair,” he acknowledged. “It's Clay.”

“Clay.” George turned the name around in his head and attached it to the man in front of him. Clay.

“That's my name. And now you know it,” Clay smiled. “Not a lot of people do.”

A faint smile pulled onto George's face and heat spread across his chest at the words, tickling his ribs until the feeling made him shift in his seat. The warmth of the pub engulfed him, and the sounds of the city didn't seem so jarring anymore. George yawned.

“Getting tired?” Clay inquired.

“A bit, yeah.”

“Ah, so I tell you my name and then you immediately ditch me? C’mon, George.”

George hummed and propped his elbows onto the table, resting his chin in his hands. “I never said I was leaving. Just tired.”

Clay released a small breath of laughter as he caught the way George’s eyes drooped, the way his pink cheeks pillowed against his hands. There was a fondness behind the sound and a subtle warmth in Clay’s glittering eyes.

“I guess that's true,” Clay murmured.

George's lips curled up drowsily. “You talk weirdly.”

“How so?”

“You’re… you’re brash. And you make up phrases like ‘Death Eater’ and ‘respect the bustle’—”

A loud wheeze cut George off as Clay fell into a fit of cackles. “Respect the _bustle_ ,” he strained, his last word breaking apart into whistles of air. 

George giggled sleepily at the other’s contagious laugh. “Did I say it wrong?”

“Yes, you did. And I’m not from here, George. That’s why I talk like this.”

“Then where are you from?”

“I don't know if I should tell you.”

A frown appeared on George's lips. “Why not?”

Clay chuckled at the faint pout. “I don't think you would even remember if I told you right now. You're so sleepy,” he whispered softly. 

“Ok, then tell me tomorrow,” George proposed, oblivious to the tentative affection in the other’s voice, or the shift in Clay’s throat as he swallowed. “When I’m not so sleepy.”

“How did you get this tired so fast? Just a few minutes ago you were about ready to leave, and now you want to see me again?” Clay questioned as he leaned forward in amusement. 

Somewhere in his muddled brain, George registered the meaning behind the absentminded words. “See you again?”

“Well, how else am I supposed to tell you tomorrow if we don’t see each other?” 

They were both leaning across the table now. Normally, an intimacy like this would have made George draw back, but in his current state between sleep and awareness, he found himself completely untroubled. 

“But you don’t live here.”

“I come here when I have a reason to.”

“Like what? _Burglarizing_?” George giggled. 

“Not necessarily. Maybe you could give me another reason.”

And before George could respond, it happened again. 

He felt the rumble before he heard it; a low vibration that started in his feet and crawled towards his ears, building until all he could listen to was the deafening roar of their surroundings. It was a sound so full of menace that it slapped George across his cheek, yanked at his hair, and scraped down his spine. And astoundingly, in some impossible sense, the rumble introduced a new quality that had not been present the first time: a high-pitched yawning that seemed to split open George’s skull, its echo resounding in the chambers of his chest and mind. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t scream. All he could do was let the onslaught of sound batter his body. 

As quickly as it started, it stopped. 

Any ounce of drowsiness within George had been killed. During the chaos, rum had spilled across tables and chairs, oil lanterns had crashed onto the floor, and George’s hand had somehow found Clay’s, their fingers laced together tightly and knuckles white with fear.

“What the fuck,” Clay panted. His forehead glistened with sweat and his grip on George’s hand was unrelenting.

George’s mind was blank. An iron fist had clenched around his throat, the cut on his delicate skin pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. His body felt numb yet it hummed like a charged wire. He could only hear Sapnap’s words in his head, repeating over and over, sending shivers that bled through his entire body. 

_Our world is in grave danger. Our world is in grave danger. Our world is in grave danger. Our world—_

“George? George, breathe.”

Clay’s voice penetrated the thick wall of spiraling anxiety and pulled George out of the water. He gasped for breath as the aftermath caught up to him, finding a sanctuary in their clasped hands. It grounded him back to reality. 

“Are you okay?” Clay asked, panic written across his face and spilled in his words. 

George shuddered as he nodded, slowly releasing his hold on Clay’s hand. An emptiness whittled into his stomach as he let go. Suddenly, he felt so alone. 

“I—I have to go speak to Wilbur.”

“Do you know what just happened?”

“No. But Wilbur does,” George replied as he turned to look at Clay. His face was filled with alarm, but there was something else in Clay’s eyes that George could see as their gazes locked. It was unbroken resilience. It was the same look that George imagined to be behind the mask that day in the bakery. And this time, instead of feeling instinctive irritation, he felt nothing but utter respect. The vivid green seeped into his own vision until George’s breathing fell back into rhythm. 

George reached across the small table and pressed his hand onto the other’s chest. Stunned, Clay sat still as George closed his eyes and narrowed in on the beat of his heart. It was steady and slow. 

George peered through his eyelashes at the other man. “Your heart,” he murmured.

Clay swallowed harshly, his lips parting as he gazed back at him. “What about it?”

George didn’t answer. Instead, his hand slid away and he stood up from his rickety chair. He felt Clay’s stare follow him as he gathered his cloak and slipped it across his shoulders. 

“Come with me,” George reached out a hand.

“Where are we going?” Clay asked as he slipped his hand into the other’s grasp. With a pull, Clay rose from his chair. 

“Wilbur’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to those who came back to read, and welcome to those who are new :) i hope you guys are enjoying the story
> 
> please leave a kudos if you enjoyed, they're much appreciated <3 and comment if you can spare the time lmaoao

**Author's Note:**

> hello :) ! follow me on twitter: svdhummus


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